


Atlantis, a coffee shop story

by scriptgrim



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:45:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1605668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptgrim/pseuds/scriptgrim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John leaves the military and opens up a coffee shop in Colorado Springs.  Rodney McKay is addicted to coffee.  Of course they both meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atlantis, a coffee shop story

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, I'm an a-hole of the highest order. Sometimes I delete my LJ, promise to put a story up on AO3 and then forget to do it. Sometimes I rewrite sections because seriously, this was a crappy story and I have no idea why people ever liked this thing.
> 
> Yes, I am the original author. Yes, this is a WIP. I apologize in advance for basically everything.

The summer is hot, not Afghanistan hot, but John can still feel it beat down on the back of his neck, and reaches to his hip.  But there isn’t anything there anymore, and the realtor is looking at him, questioning, wondering, and John smiles, tight lipped, at her.

She continues gesturing at the area, pointing out the location, how close to the military base they are, the nearest shopping centers, and oh look at all the convenient parking nearby.  John studies the skyline, the mountains are large, almost too large, and white capped and reaching to the sun.  Just staring at them, taking in the sheer size, the too blue sky.

“Here we are,” she trills, as she works to unlock the front door.

It’s the fifth place he’s looked at, and John really doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what he’ll make of the place once he does find it.  He’s looking for something.  Something that has a feel, has a smell that isn’t hemp.  Something that stops the twitching of his hands.

She holds the door open, and John steps into the dark room.  The jittery twitch that has taken residence in his spine, and he knows this is going to be the last one of the day.  He’s going to have to leave to run ten miles, or until his limbs hurt, and he can’t think or dream of sand, gunfire, and flying.  Until he can forget the way the life jerks out of a person, when they die.  The spasms a body has, even after a person is dead.

The lights click on, and John pushes the thoughts away to take a look around.  The floor is carpeted in the standard package mix that makes him cringe, but the room is a good size with three sides of pure windows. It’s a corner location, and that a plus for the place.  There is wood, and it smells clean.  

He continues to prowl around the room, bending down to check out the wood and the crown molding.  He bounces on the floors, and thankfully, those seem stable.  He turns and checks the view of the street, and he can see people peering in already, with only a few rushing down the street.  The windows are large, wide and tall, intricate dark molding all around them.

It’s just an empty room with a subpar kitchen in the back, but John already has have a dozen plans sketched out in his head, each one as idiotic as the last.  But he likes plan C.  

It’s going to cost a fuckton of money, but he’s got a lot of hazard pay sitting in the bank to cover this.

The realtor is blabbering on about how this used to be a bookstore and a restaurant before that, but the e-book market as well as the economic crunch killed the business about five months ago.  The old owner’s been searching for a buyer since then.

“Where is the nearest coffee shop?” John asks, running his fingers over the wood paneling of the bottom half of the walls.  The upper half is painted a warm beige trimmed in green that John is rather partial to.  It makes the room look homey instead of generic.

The realtor stops in his sales pitch and turns to John.  “I believe there is a Starbucks around the corner.”

John shakes his head, looking at the arched ceiling and the handcrafted molding. The building has character, and John likes that.  This is the first building he’s seen that doesn’t have the minimalist modern approach that John hates.  “No, I mean a real coffee shop with handmade sandwiches, people who know your name, and coffee that doesn’t cost four dollars.”

“I…” the realtor pauses.  “I don’t know any places like that.”

Humming _One Piece at a Time_ , John turns and stares out the building’s windows at the people nearly sprinting down the street, scowl plastered on their faces, and chattering into their phones.   He watches them for a while before looking back at the empty room.

“I’ll take it,” John says, thinking about how it will look after some hard work and a good scrubbing.  And polish.  Lots of polish.

 

 

The book’s cover still has flour clinging to cover, and it reminds him of weekends with his mother on whatever base his father was assigned too.  They always spent Saturday mornings baking some new wonder, and they always did until the cancer finally ensnared her.

John hasn’t opened the cookbook since.  It’s sat in a locked box in a storage unit all those years he spent overseas, killing people.  

He can’t help but wonder what his mother would think now if she could see him.  His dirty hands all over the cookbook that only brings back memories of warm kitchens and sneaking of chocolate chips and other sweets.  Innocence.

Carefully, he cracks open the book open, not wanting to disturb the fragile pages.  John turns the pages, remembering his mother’s laughter and the smell of cooking bread.  He takes notes on recipes he is able to produce, a few he needs to try, and one he wants to learn.

After all, his mother’s specialty was handmade croissants.

 

 

The second thing he does is place a sign in the window, saying a second manager is wanted. Teyla Emmagan strolls in around noon, while he’s getting some of the cobwebs out of the wooden beams. She waits until he’s comes down to tell him that she is here about the job as manager.

“I would rather you work the afternoon shift from eleven to seven.  Is that alright?” John asks, because he’s interviewing a woman who is dressed in a mix of hippy and leather who he knows absolutely nothing about.  

Teyla extends her resume out to him, and John reads previous work experience, and settles on the fact that she comes highly recommended by a few college years working for Starbucks, a few specialty drink suppliers, and she also ran the cafe in the bookstore that this location once housed.  The owner, later, gives him a glowing recommendation.  “I do know self defense as well, and have a few former employees who would like to work here as well,” she serenely states.

John stammers a “sure” and an enthusiastic “you’re hired” shortly there after.  He follows that up with, “Do you know any coffee bean suppliers?”

Teyla smiles in response.  John takes that as a yes.

John later revises that yes to hell yes, after he tastes his first cup of what is later called Bitter Hazelnut.  (It is renamed Atlantis’ Specialty, a year later.  John wanted to call it Lover’s Brew, but he was out voted 4 to 1.)

 

 

John’s trying to clean the wood floors when he sees a kid staring in the window.  He’s not an actual kid, but some days John feels so weary  (down to his fucking bones) that he calls everyone kid. He glances at the kid and then back to the patch of wood he is trying to get cleaned up.  The kid apparently takes that to mean ‘come in, I have nothing better to do that chat with random people staring at me.’

John straightens and leans on the swifter (and fuck, he never thought he would own a swifter, but it’s so much faster than anything else).  The kid scans the entire room, moving while he observes, a touch too twitchy for John to rule out anything just yet.  The kid finally looks back at him after a few minutes,  

“Hi,” the jittery kid beams.  “I’m Aiden Ford, and Teyla said you needed slave labor.”

John raises an eyebrow at the kid.  “You're over eighteen, right?”

“Hey!” Aiden yelps, truly wounded at the question.   “I’m twenty!”

John raises the other eyebrow.  “Do you have anything to do Ford?”

Aiden shrugs a “no”, and John tells him to lose the backpack and head around back.  Teyla should be there any minute with truck filled with the furniture and they have an hour to unload before he needs to return the vehicle.  Aiden shucks the  backpack and his overshirt and helps him clean up the area, so  it’s easier to get the furniture in the door and in a corner of the room.  With Aiden, they finish on time, and John’s turning on the engine when he hears Aiden ask if he has a job.

“Of course,” Teyla responds.  “Just don’t ask to be paid in coffee.”

John’s laughter is covered by the roar of the truck’s engine.

  
  


 

One week before the store is suppose to open, a tall man with dreadlocks breezes through the front doors of the still unnamed coffee shop.

(Teyla and Aiden like the name Atlantis, but John’s fine with The Coffee Shop.  They have threatened to cut off his supply of Bitter Hazelnut, so John knows he’s going to have to give in soon.  He’s running out of it.)

He stares at John, who was trying to install the espresso maker, silent and more than vaguely threatening.  “Can I help you?” John asks, remembering that if former Air Force and survived Afghanistan, so there is no reason to be unnerved by an unnaturally tall man.

“Teyla said you needed help,” Dreads says.

John notes that he needs to talk to Teyla about who she recommends to him.  “Yeah,” John states.  “I do.  Any reason I should hire you?”

“I can install that.”  He gestures over John’s shoulder at the espresso machine.  John refuses to relief.  Absolutely refuses.

“Can you use it?”

Dreads looked at him as if saying; did you really just ask me that?

“Okay,” John amended.  “Can you teach me how to use it?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re hired…whatever your name is.”

“Ronon.”

“Welcome to the gang Ronon.”

 

 

They do amazing business the first few weeks.  The military types love them; the scientists from the mountain love them, and the everyday residents have deemed this a hot spot.

It is discovered, during the few weeks before the store opens that Teyla has amazing taste in tea, Aiden is a whiz at the espresso machine, and Ronon can make fantastic sandwiches.  John’s got the best crew, ever, working for him.  Screw Starbucks, Atlantis will take over the world.

Elbow deep in dough at 5 in the morning is the only time John allows himself to laugh about it.  About how it all just fit together, and how he has his team and how this may actually work.  

He hasn’t run more than 3 miles in 2 months.

He’s fine with that revelation.

  
  


 

It all starts three months after opening when a man is ranting to Aiden about incompetence.  John can see the college student’s cool wearing thin, which speaks a lot about the customer’s annoyance levels if it’s making Aiden lose his cool.

“I got this Aiden,” John slides beside the younger man, who shoots him a grateful smile before shifting over to help Ronon with the back order of about 6 drinks.

“Is there a problem, sir?” John greets the customer.  The other man is looking down his nose at John, and John knows his type well. This customer is one of those who believes himself to be one of the smartest men in the world and better than everyone around him.  He’s dealt with enough in the military, and God knows he doesn’t want to deal with this man now.

The man points to his coffee.  “This!” he states.   “This is the problem!  This coffee is bitter, nutty, and where the hell did you find this coffee?”

John blinks.  “What?”  Apparently he was wrong.

“I’ve heard about this place, and how the coffee was a religious experience, and I knew everyone was lying, but this coffee is some of the best there is.  Now, that I’ve stroked your ego enough tell me what type of bean this is!”

“I can’t tell you that sir,” John returns, trying to work his mind around the fact that this arrogant man, who John was sure was here to complain about how his coffee wasn’t up to snuff, if pretty much begging him for the type of coffee beans.

Also, the whole “religious experience” statement may have shocked him into submission.  That was one particular statement he hadn’t heard yet.  The reviews of the store were flowery, but not that much.  “We make it a policy to not discuss the real names of the beans.  I can tell you we call it Bitter Hazelnut Blend, and the beans are from South America.  Beyond that, I can’t say a word.”

The other man’s jaw drops.  “You won’t tell me?  Then let me buy some of the beans.”

John shrugs.  “We don’t sell the beans.”

“So,” the man states, a tiny bit outraged.  “You won’t tell me the real name of the beans, nor do you sell the beans, so I have to come in and buy a cup of coffee everyday in order to get this.”  He lifts up his still steaming cup at the last word.

“I have to make a profit somehow,” John jokes.

People are starting to watch, and a few of the regulars from the mountain are either snickering or leaving as quickly as they can after they spot the man before John.  Interesting.

The other man splutters, and John adds, “It’d cost you more to buy a package of beans than it is to get a cup here.  It’s also cost me a ton of time as well, so I decided not to deal with the hassle.  How about a complimentary piece of lemon bread as an apology?”

"Are you trying to kill me?” the man, McKay as the badge on his jacket reads, yelps.  He even flinches away from the proffered lemon bread.  John’s lips twitch.

John raises an eyebrow.  “No?” he says, turning the word into a question.

"I’m allergic to citrus!” McKay cries.  “First you refuse to tell me the type of beans you use, and now you are trying to kill me with citrus. You have to be in league with Kavanagh.  I knew that man wanted to steal my work so he could win a Nobel Prize.  I knew it!”

The oven beeps behind him, and John lets McKay continue his conspiracy theory about a Kavanagh man and Noble prizes, as he pulls a towel off the rack.  Carefully, he opens the oven and checks to make sure the croissants are done.   

It’s a thing they decided to do.  Have one oven in the front, so the scent of baking bread of would fill the place.  John had pushed hard for it.  And he’s glad he did.  

The croissants are done, and John quickly lifts them out of the oven and places the sheet on the counter.  He places another sheet in the oven, sets the timer, and turns back to McKay.  The man is positively drooling, though he would deny it like any man, over the croissants sitting behind John.

“There aren’t any citrus in those,” John comments nonchalantly.  “How about a few of those instead of the lemon bread?”

McKay sniffs.  “I could be assuaged with a few croissants.”

John nearly, nearly, grins at the statement.  “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll bring them over in a minute once they’ve cooled.”

He lingers just enough to make it seem as McKay isn’t following John’s suggestion, but they both know he is.  John turns to find Aiden staring up at him in amazement.  “You are the master of manipulation,” Aiden awes.

Waving the comment away, John reaches for a plate.  “It was nothing,” John says.  “I’ve dealt with worse in the military.”

Ronon grunts, and John looks at the taller man.  “I could deal with him, and no one would ever find the body,” he says, flipping his knife with the ease of someone who knows his way around it.

“We’re good,” John grins.  “Honestly, the man was won over with the smell of the croissants.  And anyways, no dead bodies in my kitchen.”

Ronon stares at John as if to say, _like I’d kill him in the kitchen_.

Some days, John thinks everyone that works for him needs counseling.  This is proving to be one of those days.

Instead, he grabs two croissants off the pan cursing as he deposits them on a plate, along with a coffee pot of Bitter Hazelnut and makes his way around the counter to where McKay is holed up.   It’s a corner booth with a laptop, stacks of papers with way too much red marks on them, and a red pen lid in his mouth that he is muttering around.

John places the plate on the only clear spot and fills up McKay’s mug without a word, before leaving without the man every noticing him.

He never sees McKay’s reaction to the croissants because the early morning rush arrives.  By the time they’re gone thirty minutes later; McKay’s booth is occupied by a few harried looking college students.  Aiden, who bussed the table in a slow moment, doesn't remember anything interesting being left on the table besides a twenty that covered the bill for the coffee nine times over.  

John ends up running five miles that afternoon, and has to sit on his porch and stare out at the low clouds covering most of the mountains except for the base until it's time to catch some sleep. 


End file.
